It was the day your brothers came home with new bikes; the kind with gear stops that they hadn’t quite figured out yet. Van ran you over, you tibia broke, and in a cast you went. Four weeks with one true shower. By the day you got your cast off we could poke your heel through a small hole you burned into it; a byproduct of scooting on your butt to and fro. You played with the hose the night before it’s removal, evidenced by the soggy swamp foot that revealed itself the next morning. We’re a few days out and you’re not quite walking on it but you’ll get there. Remind Van later in life, if he’s not already too traumatized from being stuck in the middle and then carrying the guilt of being the responsible party, that he owes you one.